


Slow Going

by a_solitary_marshmallow



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac Stan Pines, Memory Issues, You can't, stan loves cooking change my mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27262219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_solitary_marshmallow/pseuds/a_solitary_marshmallow
Summary: As much as I love the finale of Gravity Falls, it's fun to think about what would happen if Stan's memories DIDN'T return right away. This is just a little drabble I'm happy with and thought I'd share!
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 24
Kudos: 108





	Slow Going

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I love the finale of Gravity Falls, it's fun to think about what would happen if Stan's memories DIDN'T return right away. This is just a little drabble I'm happy with and thought I'd share!

Sometimes the world shifted.

Or at least, it felt like it did; like he was on the deck of a boat being tossed about by waves, getting knocked off his feet the moment he’d found them steady. The silver-haired man whose face looked so familiar – his brother? – explained in a soft voice that it wasn’t the world, it was his own mind. Something about memory guns and relapses and memories and slow recovery. He couldn’t quite understand it. He tried, but it was like trying to put together a puzzle with pieces missing.

For the most part the world was stable enough. They lived in a house – his house, apparently. The man was his brother. The sweet-faced kids were his niece and nephew. Or… great niece and nephew?

Definitely great. They called him ‘grunkle’.

He knew that something big must have happened, back before he’d woken up in the forest a few days ago. Everyone here seemed so _sad_. It made his chest ache, a black stain of worry spreading through him. But no matter how much he asked no one would explain it to him. Or… maybe they already did, and he’d forgotten?

Maybe everyone was sad because they missed this ‘Stan’ character. The kids, his brother, and that weirdly familiar man-child who came around every day looked upset whenever he asked about the guy. Even though some of them called him by that name? Was it _his_ name?

He groaned and sat up from his bed, abandoning any hope of getting back to sleep. Not with his brain being all screwy and this headache pulsing in his temples. The dull throbbing always seemed to spike up when he hit a particularly frustrating block – like when he’d spent ten minutes staring at a stranger only to realize the face staring back was his own reflection in the window. Or when he forgotten how to tie his shoelaces. The bad days came and went like waves on the open sea.

He groaned again, one hand scrubbing at his face as the other fumbled around for…

For?

His hand found a pair of glasses on the bedside table. That old guy wore glasses, right?

_-a bright-eyed child with a book in one hand, gesturing excitedly, poking up his glasses when they started to slip down his nose-_

Yeah, his brother, Ford. Must be his glasses then.

He pulled on a rumbled jacket and trudged downstairs, smothering a yawn in one hand. From the chill in the air it must be early, so he was careful not to make noise and wake the kids, who he was pretty sure slept in the basement or the attic or something. Were they still there at all? Still, there was a clattering coming from the kitchen. He followed it curiously.

His brother glanced up when he entered. The man – his name was _Ford_ , he reminded himself – was doing… _something_ at the stove. Something that was resulting in sizzling and a bit of smoke.

“Oh, Stanley, good morning. How are you?”

Stanley! That was his name, he remembered now. He got the feeling that he’d forgotten it before. Jeez, it was a bit embarrassing to forget your own name. Since when was he having memory problems anyway? He couldn’t… remember…

“Stanley?” Ford stepped closer, his eyes searching Stan’s face. “Are you alright? Are… are you having another episode?”

Stan shook his head and suddenly remembered the glasses in his hand. He held them out.

“Episode? Of what, Ducktective? No, I’m good. Are these yours?”

Ford’s eyes landed on the glasses and he bit his lip. “No, Stan, those are yours.”

Stan blinked. “…I have glasses?”

Ford gently took them from his hand, unfolded them and slid them over Stan’s face. The world sharpened around him.

“Oh! So that’s why everything was so blurry.” Now that his vision was clear he could see the mess of what he _hoped_ were eggs sizzling in the pan over Ford’s shoulder. Well, less sizzling, more hissing and blackened around the edges. “Uhh – hey, Ford? What the heck is that?”

Ford brightened at the use of his name. Then he had the grace to look sheepish.

“Ah, yes. I was attempting to make breakfast – though it has been some time since I’ve cooked. I seem to be a little out of practice.”

Stan snorted and ducked past his brother to take the pan off the heat. “Yeah, no kidding. These eggs look more scrambled than my brain.”

“…they were supposed to be pancakes.”

This time Stan couldn’t suppress a loud laugh. “Alright, move over. Time to let the pros work.” He tipped Ford’s disaster-cakes into the bin with a flick of his wrist and pulled out a fresh bowl. “You’re gonna wanna mix the eggs and milk together before you add ‘em to the flour. And put that measuring cup away. When it comes to pancakes you gotta measure this shit with your _heart_.”

He found he didn’t have to ask where the flour was kept, or the whisk. His hands found them instinctively. Stan’s autopilot was on a roll as he chatted away.

And then he turned and caught a glimpse of Ford gaping at him. Stan hesitated.

“…what? I got something on my face?”

Ford shook his head quickly, a warm smile spreading across his face. “No. Please, continue.”

“Uhh… sure.” Stan shrugged before resuming whisking the batter. “You wanna pass me the ladle so I can fry these bad boys? And see if we’ve got any jam in the fridge. One of the scamps – err, was it Mabel? – she likes the stuff, right?”

“They both do.” Ford explained. “Mabel has a higher tolerance for sweets, though, so it’s an easy mistake to make. I – Stan, is that _glitter_?”

The surprise in Ford’s voice made Stan stop and look down at his hands. Sure enough, clutched in one fist was a jar of bright pink sparkles. When had he picked it up? Just looking at it made his head throb.

“I… I guess so. Why do I…?” He looked around helplessly. “I don’t remember why…”

Suddenly he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. He was in a kitchen, cooking. Or he had been. How did he know how to cook? He couldn’t remember the recipe, or where he’d learned it.

Ford gently pried the jar of glitter from his hand, reading the label out loud. “Industrial strength edible glitter. I suppose this is how Mabel makes her cooking so… vibrant.”

How did he get here? Why did his head hurt?

“Do you remember a few weeks ago?” Ford prompted. “The biscuits she made were glittery. She made me come up from the basement for a formal tea party and gave us all pretentious names. I was worried the glitter may be toxic so I tried to run a few tests on them to make sure they were safe, and you told me I was being silly.”

…glitter. Biscuits. Pancakes. Stan winced and rubbed his forehead at another spike of pain.

“…right, yeah. The, um, the glitter.” Just like that, the world was coming into focus again. The boat righted itself. “I… lost a bet with – what’s her name? Mabel – and for the rest of the summer every pancake I made hasta be filled with glitter. Somethin’ about makeup for your insides.”

Ford smiled eagerly. “Stan! You remembered something without direct prompting!”

“…you told me about the thing.”

“About the _glitter_ , yes, but not the bet! This means you’re getting better!”

Stan was still kinda confused, but it was hard to be crabby in the face of that sunshine grin. It made him feel all warm inside. _Safe_.

So he laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, letting the headache fade into background noise. “Yeah, well. You’re still gettin’ glitter with these pancakes. A bet’s a bet.”

“Of course. I doubt even amnesia would save you from Mabel’s wrath if she found out you went back on your word. Do you happen to remember what she would have had to do if she’d lost?”

“Err…” Stan racked his brain. It sent another twinge of pain through him but it was _worth_ it when his brother was smiling like that. “Somethin’ about that pig. I was probably gonna make her kick it out or somethin’.”

“You love that pig.” Ford said dismissively. Stan punched him lightly in the arm and it just felt _right_.

“You take that back! No way am I attached to a piece of living bacon!”

“Fine, fine. Then for the sake of your dignity; you love Mabel and she loves that pig. Ergo, you would not have made her kick it out.”

“Ah, whatever.” Stan flapped his hand. “Didja want these pancakes or not, mister smarty-pants?”

“I would love nothing more.”

Stan rolled his eyes at his brother’s fervent tone. It was just _pancakes_. Not like Stan had risen from the dead or anything. Ugh, drama kids.

But – it was nice. Stan wasn’t sure why the familiar-but-not-too-familiar banter filled him with a bittersweet feeling. His brother’s smile, the ease of working in a kitchen he could have sworn he’d never used but somehow knew like the back of his hand, it all just felt _right_.

Stan couldn’t remember what he’d woken up thinking about that morning, but he did know that he was happy. And wasn’t that enough?


End file.
